


Slouch

by yikesola



Series: Commissions [10]
Category: Phandom/The Fantastic Foursome (YouTube RPF)
Genre: 2019, Established Relationship, Implied Sexual Content, Introspection, M/M, discussion of body image issues
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-03
Updated: 2020-01-03
Packaged: 2021-02-27 05:13:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,294
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22101619
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yikesola/pseuds/yikesola
Summary: Phil slouched when he spent hours on the computer, he slouched on the bus or train, he slouched when talking to almost anyone because almost anyone was shorter than him. Until eventually slouching was more comfortable than not.A fic about poor posture and changing insecurities.
Relationships: Dan Howell/Phil Lester
Series: Commissions [10]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1469918
Comments: 22
Kudos: 103





	Slouch

**Author's Note:**

> This was a commissioned piece for [letgladnessdwell](http://letgladnessdwell.tumblr.com/) 💞 and big thanks to [ahappydnp](http://ahappydnp.tumblr.com/) for the thoughtful beta!

Phil was pretty certain he and Dan were on equal footing when it came to poor posture, if their sofa creases and constant puppy eyes to one another trying to get a back rub was any indication. For years he thought they both had bent spines and slumped shoulders in the same way they both had fringes and freckles. 

And they did, most of the time, they did both slouch. 

But when Dan started following YouTube tutorials of yoga for beginners in the lounge a few mornings a week per the recommendation of his therapist, Phil notices that when Dan really wants to, really focuses, really puts in the effort, he can sit straight. He can balance. He can push his shoulders back and lengthen his neck and even out his hips. Phil can’t do that. Well, he _can_ , but it’s like... uncomfortable. It seems to point out even more so than usual just how awkward he is with his own body. This body he’s had all his damn life and always been awkward in. 

*

Every growth spurt meant his jeans were gonna leave a weird pale gap between the hem and his socks. It meant waking up in the middle of the night with cramps in his shins and thighs. It meant friends he used to look in the eye were now tilting up to speak to him. 

Phil hated it. He hated when he could see the top of his mum’s head but still felt so small and scared. 

As he got older, as the growth spurts slowed and he wound up comfortably over six feet tall, he did little things to feel as comfortable as he could even if it was all a shield. Dying his hair helped, wearing almost exclusively black skinny jeans helped. More than anything, he slouched. 

He slouched when he spent hours on the computer, he slouched on the bus or train, he slouched when talking to almost anyone because almost anyone was shorter than him. Until eventually slouching was more comfortable than not. Until his back just bent like that, until his neck just jutted like that, until his shoulders just slumped like that and… there was nothing Phil could really do about it. 

Whenever he’d lay down in bed at the end of the day, his spine would crack and lengthen because it was straight for the first time since he woke up, and it ached almost in a good way. Like chewing gum when you have a cavity. 

And Dan would rub his shoulders, Dan would kiss his neck. Soothing touches. It almost didn’t matter that he hurt in the first place because of his own poor posture. He’d spent all his life brushing off his mum’s concern, his dad’s “Straighten up, son,” his brother’s gentle teasing. 

And in recent years, he’d ignored Dan’s concerned, creased brow. 

He’d even ignored his doctor’s pointed questions, when he wound up in hospital after a fainting spell soon after they got home from the second tour. He didn’t see how slouching was related to randomly passing out in his bathroom twice. And it wasn’t like the doctor was _saying_ there was a correlation, she was just saying he’d pay for that posture the older he gets. 

Phil sees his grandad shortly after on a visit to his parents’ house on the Isle of Man. He makes note of the slow gait, the hunch shaping through his thick cable knit sweater, the grimace of pain when he sits and stands. 

It hits Phil, somehow for the first time, how that could be him someday. 

So he starts small: he gets a proper chair for filming instead of hunching on his bed as he’s done for over a decade. 

*

The summer months in London are always brutally hot. Phil doesn’t know how he’s surprised by it every year, but he is. 

He’s spread out on their made bed, wearing only a pair of pale blue pants, trying not to melt. He’s on his stomach, and his face is happy as he’d recently flipped the pillow over and the cool side feels like a blessing. Somewhere in the haze of the afternoon sleepiness— half the result of the summer sun and half the result of not having had a coffee since this morning— he hears Dan’s approaching footsteps. 

Heatwaves are the only time he hates how warm Dan is. If Dan’s looking to mess around, he’s fully prepared to push him off until the sun sets and the breeze picks up and he has some chance of not overheating. 

It’s a shame. He hates the idea of turning down some afternoon lovin’. 

“There’s my handsome fella,” he hears Dan say from the doorway. 

Phil can’t help the snort that comes out of him then. He doesn’t even really think about it. But then Dan doesn’t say anything, and when Phil lifts his head to look over he sees that familiar concerned crease. 

“What?” Phil asks.

“What’s that snort?” Dan asks. He steps into the room, sits cross-legged at the foot of the bed. “That’s my thing, isn’t it? Snorting, self-deflection.” 

“I’m not deflecting,” Phil says. “Just weird to hear you say ‘fella’ that’s all.” 

“Oh.” The crease lessens. “So it wasn’t about the ‘handsome’ then?” 

Phil didn’t _think_ it was. But now the idea of saying no gives him that same prickle he gets when he has to stretch the truth. 

And apparently he takes too long to answer, because Dan’s frown deepens again and he reaches out to run a large, warm hand along Phil’s back. 

“Danny,” Phil whines. “It’s too hot.” 

Dan bends forward and kisses right between Phil’s shoulder blades. “Mmm,” he says, “you sure are, babe.” 

“Off,” Phil says, shaking his shoulders. 

Dan listens, laying on his side next to Phil but not touching. He’s watching Phil like he’s looking for something. Like he’s trying to find the words. But eventually his eyes drift closed, and Phil’s do too, and they nap there for a little while, waking up in a cooler room as the sun has set and the breeze picked up. 

*

“Shoulders back, Phil,” Dan says. “Tilt that chin.” 

Phil is being directed for nothing more than a potential Instagram post showing off his latest indulgent Topman purchase of a shirt with an _Aladdin_ graphic on it and the picturesque landscape, but Dan takes it as seriously as he does any other photo he takes. Phil tries to listen; Dan always seems to take the best photos of him. But he also tries his own poses from time to time. Right now he tries crossing his arms. 

“Yes, Disney Dad, give us those arms,” Dan teases. 

“Shut up,” Phil laughs, shaking his arms loose and leaving them hanging by his side. 

“Here,” Dan moves further back, climbs on top of a boulder and takes a few pictures from an almost comically high angle. “This is the only way to make you look like you have an actual working spine,” he says, still teasing, but not as obviously. 

In the end, Phil’s happy with those photos best. Dan’s right, he doesn’t look quite so slouchy. It’s not like he slouches as bad as he used to. But lately, he seems to notice it more. Because he used to slouch from like insecurity, and as the years go by— as he does big, scary, once thought to be impossible things like cutting his emo fringe and coming out publicly— he blames it on habit. He’s not nearly so insecure as he once was, even if occasional anxious three o’clock in the mornings hit him and he feels paralysed with self-doubt. 

That’s just… well, that’s just human. 

And different from the insecurity that led to his habitual slouch, insecurity over being the weird kid and not being fit enough. Wondering if he was single because he was too scrawny, too lanky, too clumsy. If his head was too massive so he bent his neck. If his nose was too beaky so he looked to the ground. If his shoulders were too broad, attached to arms too skinny. His legs too long, his feet too big. 

Over the years most of those insecurities melted away, somehow or another. 

Some were worked on through exercises Dan brought home from therapy to deal with his own image issues. Some stopped mattering as his body changed with age, as they worked out for tour prep, as they tried to adultify their lifestyle. And some, as jumbled as Phil feels about the need for such validation, went away as a result of having someone love all parts of him for a decade now, even the parts he thought would keep someone from ever looking his way. 

And despite all of that, he still slouches. He looks to the ground as they make their way down the Isle of Man cliffside. His back aches when he lays down on the bed in his parents’ sunniest guestroom he and Dan always claim. 

Dan stands at the foot of the bed like he knows what Phil has been thinking about. That shouldn’t surprise him after all these years. And it doesn’t, really. “Backrub, babe?” he asks. 

Phil smiles. “Please?” 

Dan gestures for him to flip over. Phil slips his shirt off and does so. Soon he feels the bed dip as Dan climbs over him, settling on the back of his thighs. Dan’s hands are large and soft and warm, hands Phil is so fucking familiar with and loves to feel on his bare skin. He sinks into the bed below him as Dan’s hands run firmly, caringly over the planes of his back. 

“What’s going on in that noggin of yours, Lester,” Dan asks after a while. His tone is gentle, patient. He wants to have this conversation, and he’s willing to work through Phil’s guaranteed objections. Or, at least, that’s how Phil is interpreting it. 

“Mmm,” he hums, “not much.” 

“No?” 

“Just how nice my boyfriend’s hands are.” 

Dan pinches Phil’s side. Phil only jumps a little. “Just the hands?” 

“Yeah, the rest of him is mean,” Phil laughs. He tries swatting at Dan with one of his own hands but the way he’s laying makes it difficult. 

Dan leans forward. He plants a kiss on Phil’s right shoulder. “You don’t want me to be mean?” 

“Not right now,” Phil smiles. “One rubbin, please, hold the babuse.” 

Dan kisses his shoulder again. “Can do.” Dan turns and kisses Phil’s neck. Dan’s told Phil plenty of times how he loves Phil’s neck— how he loves its length, and the sharp jut of his Adams apple, and how near the chin there’s the prickles of unshaved scruff first thing in the morning. Phil isn’t getting his backrub right now, but he’s sure not complaining as Dan’s chapped lips make their way along the bare, half-exposed column of Phil’s throat. As Dan lies flat along Phil’s body, their limbs lined up together and his body heat transferring to Phil, the tension seeps from his back as effectively as if Dan were still focusing on it directly. 

Soon, Dan moves back to Phil’s shoulders, kisses along the muscles of his arms. When he moves to sit up, he places his hands between Phil’s shoulder blades. “Breathe in,” he instructs. Phil does. “And out.” 

Dan presses as Phil breathes, popping Phil’s spine in a toe-curlingly satisfying way. He can’t help the moan that slips out afterwards. Dan gives a gentle laugh. 

“You know you can see a chiropractor to do that for real, right?” 

“What if he snaps my head off?” Phil asks. 

“I’m more liable to do that,” Dan says. “He’d know what he’s doing. I sure as hell don’t.” He starts rubbing along Phil’s ribs. “Might not be a bad idea.” 

Phil doesn’t answer. Not because he has any strong objections to seeing a chiropractor. Just because doing so seems like the final step in admitting his posture is an actual problem. It would make it real, not the thing he’s been so carefully ignoring for years. 

Dan doesn’t bring it up again, but he does lay back against the headboard when he’s finished with Phil’s rub and smirks when he asks how Phil’s gonna pay him back. His hips are already at level with Phil’s face, and the answer seems simple enough to both of them. 

*

It takes a while for Phil to actually call a chiropractor and set up an appointment. Not just because of his hatred of phone calls, but because of how he wishes he could just put off the reality of his posture indefinitely. The same way he puts off his fear of his loved ones growing older and the way he puts off the fact that all his favourite flavours are also things he’s allergic to. But he’s waking up sore more mornings than not lately, and he doesn’t want to have a backache all through Japan when they finally go back in a few weeks. And also he ran into a spot of trouble the night before doing one of the rare fancy moves he has in bed because his shoulder was killing him, and fuck if he’s gonna lose the ability to pull that one off just because he doesn’t want to call a chiropractor. 

So he calls. He makes an appointment and shows up anxiously early. He tells the smiling woman at the counter who he’s here to see and she hands him a clipboard where he’s supposed to circle his pain places on a vague outline of a body. It reminds him of those chalk outlines of murdered bodies at crime scenes. Then he circles what he’s sure is far too many places and hands the clipboard back over. 

The appointment itself is quick, and not as awkward as he was expecting. The chiropractor doesn’t tut over his posture, just says, “Yep, you could use some help,” and smiles as nicely as the woman at the counter had. Her hands aren’t sweaty or cold, they’re capable and Phil’s joints all pop in ways he wasn’t exactly sure they could pop. 

He makes an appointment on his way out for the following week. They’re gonna do weekly sessions until Japan, and afterwards he’ll come in monthly. 

It feels good to have a plan. 

It feels good in general. To be without pain. He’s not sure how long it’s been since he felt that… and he knows it’ll come back, knows this might not solve everything, but the walk to the tube station feels light somehow. Almost jaunty. 

*

That night he gets out of the shower and stands in front of Dan’s giant framed mirror, while Dan himself does something in the kitchen which from this distance just sounds like rattling pots and pans. He has his usual three towels but lets them pool in a pile at his feet. He’s looking at himself for any outward sign of something different. 

At least, that’s how it starts. Eventually he’s just zooming in on individual segments of his body until they don’t even look real anymore. 

He doesn’t hear Dan come into the bedroom until he’s shaken by his voice. “Am I interrupting something?” 

Phil jumps. “God,” he’s got a hand on his heart. “Um, no…” 

Dan raises a brow.

Phil pulls his shoulders back. “Do I look any straighter?” 

“Hope not,” Dan snorts, “It might’ve been lowkey, but you still definitely came out, mate.” 

Phil turns back to the mirror. “You know what I mean.” 

Dan steps closer, behind him, resting his chin on Phil’s shoulder. The jumper he’s wearing is soft, and Phil doesn’t mind the feeling of it against his bare skin. “Yeah,” Dan says. “One session is a bit early to think you’ve undone decades of spinal abuse.” 

“Hmm…” Phil keeps staring. He’s staring at his ribs and his hips and his nose and his shoulders. He’s staring at his thighs and his feet and his hands and his dick. He’s staring at his arms. He’s staring at his stomach. He’s staring at Dan’s face, reflected beside him. 

Years ago Dan had come home from therapy with an exercise where they stood in the mirror together and Dan filled in the blanks of _I see ___, I feel ___, I am ____ for different bits of himself. Phil joined in a few times, as support. But he never really talked about bits he had any problems with.

He didn’t want to make those moments about him. 

And also maybe he was a little bit scared. 

Now he’s staring at himself and wondering if he could do it. It’s not that he hates his body. It’s not that he hates the areas he’s zeroed in on. But he has hated some of them in the past. And he has felt at times that if he could just slouch enough then he wouldn’t be seen and they wouldn’t matter. Just like he had often felt he didn’t matter. 

Dan kisses Phil’s cheek and yawns and moves to pull his jumper off. Now he’s just wearing black pants. It looks like he’s about to start getting ready for bed when Phil holds his arm out. 

“Come back here a minute, please?” he asks. Dan does, standing beside him this time. 

Phil looks between his own body and Dan’s. They’re similar. They’re different. 

He knows Dan’s as well as his own after all these years, but Dan’s has changed with age and lifestyle and many other factors just as much as his. Bits he knows Dan isn’t fond of, Phil has kissed and marked and run his fingers over. And Dan has done the same for him. 

Neither of them are sculpted, blonde, Chris Hemsworth doppelgängers, and that doesn’t mean a goddamn thing really as they’ve decided to build a life together anyways. He couldn’t be more in love with Dan even if he did have abs— he knows that, considering the few months before the second tour when he _did_ and Phil loved him the same amount: entirely. 

All slouching ever did was give Phil a backache. It didn’t make people think he was less weird, it didn’t make trying to find someone to take him on a date in uni any easier or harder, it didn’t make him blend into the crowd when his anxiety was begging for it. It just made his back hurt. 

And insecurities are tangled and weird. He hasn’t shed them completely even if he’s shed so fucking many of them. 

Dan stands patiently beside Phil, letting him work out whatever small epiphany is bubbling in his brain. Eventually Phil leans over and kisses Dan’s cheek, right where he knows Derek the Dimple is when he pops out. 

*

Dan is smiling while looking at Phil through his phone, ready to snap a picture. Phil is standing with his arms straight at his side, and his body long and tall. “One with the bamboo, babe,” Dan laughs. 

Japan is beautiful, and they were right to see more of it than just Tokyo this time around. It’s a proper holiday, no Day In The Life vlog, no work emails. The tweets and instastories are their one indulgence to something that vaguely resembles work. 

As usual, Dan takes too many good shots, and Phil decides to post two of them the next morning as they wake up slowly and wait for room service to arrive. 

His legs are sore, understandably, because of the bloody mountain they climbed yesterday. But he sits up and stretches, and to his delight his spine pops easily. No pain, no ache, and nothing stopping him from pulling his fancy move when they check into the hotel with the koi pond tonight.

**Author's Note:**

> thanks for reading— come say hi on [tumblr](http://yikesola.tumblr.com/post/190038998539/slouch) !

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [[podfic] Slouch](https://archiveofourown.org/works/23264176) by [yikesola](https://archiveofourown.org/users/yikesola/pseuds/yikesola)




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